XX.

’Thus judging, for a little space
I listen’d, ere I left the place;
  But scarce could trust my eyes, 405
Nor yet can think they serve me true,
When sudden in the ring I view,
In form distinct of shape and hue,
  A mounted champion rise.—­
I’ve fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 410
In single fight, and mix’d affray,
And ever, I myself may say,
  Have borne me as a knight;
But when this unexpected foe
Seem’d starting from the gulf below,—­ 415
I care not though the truth I show,—­
  I trembled with affright;
And as I placed in rest my spear,
My hand so shook for very fear,
I scarce could couch it right. 420

XXI.

’Why need my tongue the issue tell? 
We ran our course,—­my charger fell;—­
What could he ’gainst the shock of hell? 
  I roll’d upon the plain. 
High o’er my head, with threatening hand, 425
The spectre shook his naked brand,—­
  Yet did the worst remain: 
My dazzled eyes I upward cast,—­
Not opening hell itself could blast
  Their sight, like what I saw! 430
Full on his face the moonbeam strook!—­
A face could never be mistook! 
I knew the stern vindictive look,
  And held my breath for awe. 
I saw the face of one who, fled 435
To foreign climes, has long been dead,—­
  I well believe the last;
For ne’er, from vizor raised, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare
  So grimly and so ghast. 440
Thrice o’er my head he shook the blade;
But when to good Saint George I pray’d,
(The first time e’er I ask’d his aid),
  He plunged it in the sheath;
And, on his courser mounting light, 445
He seem’d to vanish from my sight: 
The moonbeam droop’d, and deepest night
  Sunk down upon the heath.—­
    ’Twere long to tell what cause I have
      To know his face, that met me there, 450
    Call’d by his hatred from the grave,
      To cumber upper air: 
Dead, or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.’

XXII.

Marvell’d Sir David of the Mount; 455
Then, learn’d in story, ’gan recount
  Such chance had happ’d of old,
When once, near Norham, there did fight
A spectre fell of fiendish might,
In likeness of a Scottish knight, 460
  With Brian Bulmer bold,
And train’d him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow. 
’And such a phantom, too, ’tis said,
With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid 465
  And fingers red with gore,